THE NEW YORKER 35 !ft ,JSórJ "But) dear) I thoug-ht you wanted it shaped like a pyramid.)) er's disparaging kick to the bumpr Á. "Perhaps we could put the car on a train," he said. "Is there a rail- road tunnel through this part of the Alpsr" "There's the Fréjus," the mechanic said. "But it's a long way from here- at Modane. If you want to avoid the Alps, you have to go back to the Rhone." "We'd better," she said. "I don't feel like driving back to the Rhone," he said. "I'm tIred." Sudden- ly, all trace of weariness went out of his . " L ' h Al " VOIce. et s go over t e ps. "I knew you'd say that," she said. "I knew aU along that what you really w tinted was to cross the Alps!" "Yes, let's cross them," he said The thought made him feel buoyant. He saw the fringe of peaks, the many sum- mits, fantastically white; he was almost level with them. "Let's! " he said. "The map didn't show them, and I thought we could drive to Nice and stay clear of them, but now-" "That map!" she saId. "Why don't you buy a good one? " "There's not much use buying one now; the mistake's been made. Look, there's one," he said, pointing at a wall map in the office of the garage. They both went over and looked at it. Grenoble was in a narrow valley. Its rIver, the Isère, flowed deviously southwest toward the Rhone, and the only mountain around that was a rea.- . . son ably light shade of brown was the one they had come over. All the others were a disquieting dark brown. Here and there, whitish-blue streaks denoted glaciers. He took her hand. "Let's go straight to Italy, over the Alps," he said. " N " 1 . d " I ' d 1 .. 0, s 1e sal. t s ma at t 1IS tIme of the year, in that car." "Our back tires are good. We could 1 . " get c 1alns . . . He asked the mechanic how much chains cost, but found the prIce was more than they could afford. They left the garage and called at the municipal tourist bureau to inquire about road and weather conditions. "The i\lpine passes are open," the clerk said. "Naturally, conditions may change from hour to hour." "Let's go," he said enthusiastically. "You've never driven over the- Alps, have you?" she asked him. "No, never," he saId, as though that were a good reason for doing so now. "I don't think we should go " "We practically have to. It's the quickest and cheapest way, and we don't have much money left, or much . " tlm e. "1 don't have to." "N 0, you don't. But I feel as if 1 have to cross them if it's the last thing I do- l feel sort of committed to cross them." "Oh, dll right," she stiid with a sigh. "I'll go wIth you." It was r lther lîte, and they decided to spend the night in Grenoble. They drove about the darkening town, along old, sombre streets and dim alleys that sometimes led to squares and sometimes hdd desolate endings one wanted to get quickly away from. Every onc In a while, they would come to the river, like a wider street. I N the morning, they checked at the tOUrIst office again. "The passes are still open," th clerk said. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. "At eight o'clock tonight we'll he in Turin and dine at the Cam- bio," he said, "near the table they still keep set for Cavour." They hurried out of the office. On the sidewalk, she paused. First she looked at him, and then at the car. "You don't have much confidence in it, do you?" he said. "Yes, [ do," she replied, and got in. It was cloudy but not very cold as they left Grenoble and followed the course of the river Romanche toward the heart of the Alps. Very gradually the valley narrowed to a gully. Soon they met the first snow. At first it W tiS just on the sides of the road, but later, as they continued to climb, it stolt: more and more of the surface, until soon there was only left a wavy, bare strip in the middle. Then this, too, disappeared and the road was all white. "\\1 e haven't met a car for quite a